


to warm the world, that's done in warming us

by sophiegaladheon



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Caretaking, Chocolate Box Exchange, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Indirect Communication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22600672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: Sometimes Csevet forgets to care for his own well-being.  Maia reminds him.
Relationships: Csevet Aisava & Maia Drazhar, Csevet Aisava/Maia Drazhar
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	to warm the world, that's done in warming us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chibifukurou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibifukurou/gifts).



> Happy chocolatebox, dear recip! You asked for Csevet and Maia taking care of one another, so I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> The title is from the poem "The Sun Rising" by John Donne

The hours have grown late, stretched well beyond the evening and deep into the small hours of the early morning. The halls outside the Tortoise Room, while not silent, have grown quiet, the sounds of the court retiring for the evening shifting and settling until they have smoothed into the soft rhythm of the nighttime staff moving about their duties.

Csevet notes these changes without truly registering them, deeply invested as he is in the minutia of the flurry of correspondence the emperor’s latest social reform initiative has generated. The words start to blur before his eyes, but he shakes his head and presses on. The work of an imperial secretary is never done, and it would not do to leave his work unfinished.

He breaks open the seal on another letter, stifling a yawn as he looks at the clock. It may not be strictly in line with propriety, but he can allow himself that much, his lapse of decorum excused somewhat in the privacy of the otherwise empty Tortoise Room and explained if not excused by the lateness of the hour. 

Csevet assesses the hour of the clock against the stack of un-dealt-with missives on his desk. Perhaps another hour, perhaps two and then he will retire.

There is a soft knock at the door, and Csevet starts. It is rare for anyone to disturb him on nights like these—and there are many nights like these—unless there is some emergency with his Serenity or the imperial household. He is far more awake now, poised and alert with the anticipation of ill news as he bids the door to open.

It reveals a page, one of the young boys Csevet recognizes as assigned to serve in the Alcethmeret. This fits with the pattern, with his anticipated fears. The boy is carrying a tea tray and his posture is relaxed, unworried. This does not.

“Is there any trouble with his Serenity?” Csevet asks, cautious, just to be certain.

“Oh, no Mer Aisava,” says the page, carefully setting his burden down on Csevet’s desk in a space mostly free from papers. “There is no trouble. We had orders to bring you this.” There is a twinkle in his eye, borderline insolent as he bows and departs without giving Csevet time to ask further questions.

Bemused, Csevet turns his attention to the tea tray. It is small, nothing telling or elaborate in its contents at first glance. There is a teapot—a quick whiff tells Csevet the contents are chamomile—and a cup, a small slice of seed cake, and a slip of paper folded over and half-tucked beneath the plate.

Cautiously, Csevet tugs out the note and unfolds it. He smiles and pours himself a cup of the tea. 

The note is unsigned, but he recognizes the hand, would recognize it as well as he would recognize his own.

_We would remind our secretary that his duties to his office are not the only ones for which he is responsible._

The tea is hot and soothing; the cake a mild sweetness on his tongue and a relief to the cramping hunger he had ignored well enough not to notice. Maia’s words are as much a balm as the gifts of food and drink, a gentle, practical reminder of that which he so often forgets.

_Take care of thyself_ , Csevet reads between the words of the short, formal missive. _Do not neglect thy own needs for me, or for the sake of the business of government. Thee are valuable for thy own sake, not just for thy proficiency as a secretary, and thee are precious to me. Please, remember thus._

Csevet hears the words plainly in his mind, as clearly as if Maia were there to say them himself. For this is not the first time such feelings have been expressed, and Csevet doubts it will be the last.

He almost feels guilty about that. It is hardly right, for him to disregard his emperor’s wishes repeatedly, in such a blatant way. But Maia is not an emperor in the mold of his predecessors—he is wholly himself and he values and accepts those around him for who they are, even when he disagrees. The exchange has the feeling of an old argument, now, the paths well-trodden and expertly navigated. 

By now Maia knows that he cannot stop Csevet from working when he is convinced there is necessary work to be done. And by now Csevet has learned that it is perhaps acceptable to set down his pen when the hour grows late, even if he has not yet completed all of his tasks. Even if he sometimes requires a gentle reminder.

Csevet finishes the last bite of the seed cake and dims the lamp. There will be enough time to finish with the rest of the papers in the morning. 

* * *

Breakfast is well underway by the time Csevet steps into the emperor’s private dining room, his arms crowded with piles of important documents and urgent missives requiring the emperor’s personal attention. He is greeted with nods from the emperor’s nohecharei as he sets down his things and he smiles in greeting in return.

Csevet would have to admit, if asked, that he does feel exceptionally well-rested and refreshed this morning. The look on Kiru Athmaza’s face is not a smirk, but Csevet reckons she can see right through him anyways. 

Sometimes he wonders where all of his skill in acting has gone, for he never used to have trouble disguising his true thoughts and feelings from others, and then he remembers that it is still only those who know him very well that manage to see through his mask. There are simply more of those people now.

Prince Idra has joined his cousin for breakfast, and the two of them are deep in conversation when Csevet enters, but when Maia catches sight of Csevet he immediately turns his attention towards him and grins. “Good morning, Csevet,” he says, and Csevet will never tire of seeing that beautiful smile grace that lovely face, of hearing that charming voice. “And how are you, this morning?”

It’s nothing—the sort of vapid, superficial pleasantry so common and meaningless that it is hardly worth the air used to speak it—but Csevet can hear the warmth in Maia’s voice, can see the true question in his eyes. _Didst thou sleep well? Art thou taking care of thyself?_

Csevet smiles and lets his answer shine through on his face. "I am well, Serenity, thank you.” _Yes, Serenity, thank you. I hear thy words; I listen to the meaning behind thy formal façade. Thank you for thy reminders, thank you for thy care._

_Thank you for thy good heart._

_Thank you always for being thyself._

_Thank you._


End file.
